


The Begonia Disapproved

by IneffableFangirl_writes



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Bickering, Houseplant Sass, Ineffable Idiots (Good Omens)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-03
Updated: 2019-07-03
Packaged: 2020-06-03 09:50:25
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,986
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19461496
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/IneffableFangirl_writes/pseuds/IneffableFangirl_writes
Summary: Crowley's oldest plant is a red angel wing begonia. And frankly, it's getting a little tired of watching two immortals dance around each other.





	The Begonia Disapproved

Being a plant was, by most measures, a pleasant existence. Plants required water, soil, and sunlight. There were no taxes to pay, no disagreements to get into over differences of political or religious choices, and no jobs to get to. It wasn’t a particularly difficult life, but it was a good one. Unless, that is, you happened to belong to Crowley.  
Being a plant in Crowley’s house was akin to being a soldier held hostage behind enemy lines or a student about to take final exams. Stress was high, chances of death were high, and performance was measured by the micrometer. Thankfully for it, the red angel wing begonia was of a fairly sturdy stock.   
It was one of Crowley’s oldest plants and had long grown used to his moods. It wasn’t a regular victim of the plant mister as that tended to cause powdery mildew, but when it was misted, it spent a good portion of its time and attention on preventing mildew and leaf spots. It flowered occasionally and trembled with the appropriate amount of respectful terror when Crowley was on a rampage. It had seen ferns and succulents and flowering plants come and go, some to disease, others to the dreaded garbage disposal.   
The begonia disapproved of Crowley. Not because of his tendency to toss underperforming houseplants into garbage disposals, though that was certainly a factor worth noting. Not because he drank too much even for a demon and had appalling taste in furniture--all formal with no thought for comfort--the begonia didn’t care about those sorts of things. No, it disapproved of Crowley because he was lonely and instead of doing something about it, he threatened his houseplants. It was, in the begonia’s opinion, a poor way to deal with one’s emotions. Yes, Crowley was a demon, but he was also over six thousand years old. In that amount of time, one would expect a being to develop emotional maturity. 

Crowley was misting the plants as he growled his usual threats at them--death by dismemberment, fire, a reminder of the orchid incident--even the begonia was perturbed by the orchid’s fate--and to finish, a few flicks of the disposal switch so the plants could hear the blades growl with hunger for leaves and roots.   
“Because the apocalypse didn’t happen, you are all expected to remain at my usual standards. If you had been destroyed in the eternal battle of good versus evil, that would have been regrettable but understandable. However, the world continues and I don’t want to see any flagging just because it almost ended.”  
He misted an African violet menacingly and it trembled, dropping a leaf that was yellowing at the edges. Crowley picked it up and waved it at the violet, then the rest of the indoor garden.  
“None of this now, or it’s the disposal for you. It’s your last chance for some of you so watch it.”  
With a final, pointed spritz, he stalked back towards the rest of the flat and the beginnings of a Who song were just beginning to blare from the radio when there was a knock at the door. The begonia was a bit surprised--Crowley wasn’t usually the sort who had company over. Sometimes that nice angel, Aziraphale, would come by and when Crowley wasn’t looking, miracle them a bit of fertilizer or whisper some kind words about how lovely and verdant they were all looking, but for the most part, the door was only knocked upon for package or takeaway delivery.   
The music didn’t cease and after less than a minute, there was another knock.   
“Crowley?”   
It was Aziraphale. The begonia perked up a bit. Crowley’s mood was usually improved by the presence of the angel, though after he left, the demon’s mood could really go either way. After another minute, the door opened and Aziraphale walked into the flat, closing the door behind him. He paused to admire the plants and cooed appreciatively over the buds that a miniature rose was frantically trying to grow.   
“Such lovely plants you all are. Doing a wonderful job brightening up the place.”  
The begonia was too respectable to show off, but it did rustle its leaves gently as Aziraphale passed it. One had to show some appreciation.   
The music volume increased and Aziraphale sighed pointedly.  
“He’s in a mood then, is he?”  
Yes, the plants liked Aziraphale very much.

The angel walked down the hall and into the room where Crowley’s truly excessive stereo system blared and then quite suddenly cut off.   
Plants didn’t have ears but they were excellent listeners and the begonia as well as the other houseplants were listening intently to the conversation going on in the next room.  
“Crowley, dear, are you sulking?”  
The sullen silence seemed to indicate that yes, he was, but the demon muttered something that caused Aziraphale to huff a somewhat injured-sounding,  
“Well really!”  
Crowley hissed and the miniature rose began to tremble uncontrollably. The begonia noticed with an affectionate sort of sanctimony. It would have sighed if it could; they were so touchy, the miniature breeds.  
“Is this about lunch yesterday?” Aziraphale asked and the begonia thought that probably yes. It liked Aziraphale well enough but he had the same problem that Crowley did with the lack of emotional growth. Six thousand years together (as Crowley had growled more than once) and the two of them couldn’t get the idea that perhaps in six thousand years, they might have developed a relationship that wasn’t strictly friendship. Living with a demon would give anyone a holier-than-thou attitude and the begonia was Crowley’s oldest houseplant so it had developed a bit of a superiority complex. The aloe plant and the burgundy wandering jew had considered mentioning it, but the begonia had survived a good deal longer than any of the other plants and had perhaps earned the right to an attitude. 

In the sitting room,there was a long pause.   
“You said that we were on our own side now,” the angel reminded gently.  
There was no response.  
“Now I can hardly determine what’s wrong if you don’t talk to me.”  
“Nothing’ss wrong,” Crowley snapped, though the sibilant ‘s’ told the begonia and Aziraphale that this was an outright lie.  
“My dear boy, you can’t lie to an angel.”  
“I’ve been doing it for years,” Crowley drawled back. The plants were familiar with that particular tone, slow and low and preparing to strike.  
“Well that was before,” the angel said patiently, “When we were on different sides. I rather think that after all we’ve been through, lies are unnecessary.”  
There was a long pause and the flat seemed to hold its breath. Crowley had long since made a point of miracleing his flat soundproof so there weren’t even street noises in the background. The miniature rose’s trembling even ceased so the stillness pooled heavy over the polished wooden floors, gaining weight the longer it sat, oozing under furniture and through hallways, seeping between floorboards and climbing the walls until silence coated the place from floor to ceiling.  
“I didn’t mean to offend when I laughed,” Aziraphale finally said.  
“Why shouldn’t you? Ridiculous idea, living together.”  
“It’s not living together that’s ridiculous.”  
“It’s the bloody plants, isn’t it?”   
Aziraphale sounded truly baffled when he replied.  
“I beg your pardon?”  
“The plants. It’s the reason you won’t move into my flat.”  
“No it’s not the plants, it’s your flat. I already live above my bookshop.”  
“It wouldn’t be much of a commute,” Crowley said softly, almost sadly, and Aziraphale tutted at him.  
“My dear boy, you’re missing the point. It makes no sense for me to move in with you when you already spend so much time at the bookshop anyhow.”  
“You don’t have to soften the blow, angel. Just say you don’t want to live here.”  
“Of course I don’t. I want you to move in with me.”  
“I understand of course, preposterous. Angel and a demon living in the same flat---what?”  
Aziraphale sighed and the begonia felt that if it were able, it would have sighed also, though it would sound more exasperated than Aziraphale did.  
“It wouldn’t make much sense both of us moving here and then coming to the bookshop every day. It’s much more sensible for you to just move in with me. Less moving to be done too--except for the art and the plants, there’s not a lot here that needs transporting.”  
“Move in with you?”  
“Yes, my dear.”  
“Oh.” For the first time in decades, Crowley was stunned into silence.  
“Unless,” the angel sounded suddenly anxious and the begonia had a sudden urge to fling itself from the pot rather than have to listen to another hour of these two dithering around each other.  
“Unless you’d rather not, of course. I do have a lot of things, books and knick knacks and I know how you hate my cross-stitched pillows.”  
“If I move in, the pillows have to go.”  
“What, all of them?”  
There was another pause and the begonia assumed (correctly) that the angel was looking pleadingly at the demon, whose resolve was softening at the rate of an ice cream on a particularly hot day.  
“Well I suppose not all of them. But most of them.”  
“Of course. Though the couch in the parlor would be awfully uncomfortable without them.”  
“And we’re getting a new couch for the parlor.”  
“Oh I don’t know about that,” Aziraphale dithered. “It’s an antique.”  
“A horrendously uncomfortable antique. And difficult to fit two on it, isn’t it?”  
“Well when you put it like that,” the angel mused and both Crowley and the begonia knew that the couch was as good as gone.  
“We’re getting a bigger bed as well. You don’t sleep at all and I like to stretch all the way out. I won’t be doing that in the tiny little dusty thing in the bedroom.”  
“Are you going to replace all my furniture?”  
“Our furniture,” Crowley corrected. “If we’re sharing a flat it’s hardly all yours anymore, is it?”  
“The books are mine.”  
“Of course they are, angel. I don’t want your dusty old books.”  
“Just as long as we’re clear about it.”

Except for the act of being miracled to the new flat, which was very disconcerting, the plants liked their new home. Crowley still hissed threats at them but not one had been put in the garbage disposal since the move. When Crowley was out of earshot, Aziraphale would speak kindly to the plants and often add a little fertilizer to make sure everyone had enough nutrients to keep growing. The miniature rose still trembled in Crowley’s presence, but that couldn’t be helped much.   
The begonia’s pot was placed on the bookshop counter, its size making it difficult for anyone to talk to Aziraphale when he was back there, let alone attempt to purchase anything. He’d occasionally give its’ leaves a little stroke and fondly tell it what a lovely plant it was, which the begonia liked very much. There was something to be said for positive reinforcement rather than mortal terror as an incentive.  
Perhaps because the begonia was in the bookshop and around both Crowley and Aziraphale far more often than previously, it noticed a lot of longing looks and barely-concealed pining. One would think that once the two were living together, the signals would be impossible to ignore, but both angel and demon continued on as they had for the previous six thousand years, just in a closer proximity and with a tad more of what Aziraphale thought of as ‘friendly cuddling’ and Crowley thought of as ‘using the angel as self-heating furniture’. Forces of Heaven and forces of Hell they had fooled completely, but the great force of denial held firm. The begonia disapproved of all of this very strongly, but of course, no one thought to ask it.


End file.
